


Attrition

by levendis



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Bondage, Dom/sub, Light Masochism, Light Sadism, Masturbation, Nonbinary Character, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Telepathic Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-18 03:54:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11283237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: She’s been finding patience almost as rewarding as pettiness these days.





	Attrition

It starts at the gates. It always starts at the gates. There’s an unfortunate tendency for it to end there, as well: the door remaining closed, the moment squandered. As delicious as Missy’s discovered it can be to not get what you want - the butcher’s cut of arousal, the hanger steak - she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t hoping for something a little more on-the-nose.

It starts where it always starts, with her _in here_ and the Doctor _out there_ and the door solid and heavy and thick in between them. Time dilating, as it does. The Doctor’s back to the door, lungs working like they’ve been running and are refusing to admit they’re out of breath. Probably all done-up and buttoned-down, the ‘don’t call it foppish’ velvet, prim and proper as their thoughts bleed out. The filth in their head and all the helpful suggestions she put there.

They never touch themself, at this point in the routine. Probably thinks it’s uncouth, or that they’re somehow saving face by not _technically_ wanking. Missy has no such compunctions. It is good, in its own way: telepathy, her will exerted, pushing them to just up to but not past their limit, when they invariably run away. Oh, the things she would do. Is doing. Her hands in their head. Come on, come in, come.

Missy’s busy in a ménage à moi when the door, bizarrely, opens. She pauses - not out of politeness or shame, just in the interest of reassessing the available wank material - hand between her legs, skirts rucked up, the piano keys tinkling under her calves. (It’s hugely uncomfortable, but there’s something endlessly hilarious about masturbating on a piano. Maybe because she’d waited for two years after her initial request for the Doctor to spend half a day awkwardly wedging it into the vault. They’d agreed she should have access to creative hobbies. Wink wink, nudge nudge.)

The gates _open_ and her mouth opens in a perfect, faux-surprised 'o’, to cover her actual surprise. She thinks about going for it right then and there, coming just as the Doctor finally decides to join in ♫ too laa-aaaaate ♫, but she holds off. She’s been finding patience almost as rewarding as pettiness, these days.

And the Doctor does look quite good. Hair like they’ve been running their hands through it, the general aesthetic a split between hermetically-sealed nesting-doll clothing and looking like they’ve just been brutally fucked apart. Thank you, thank you, she’ll be here all millennia.

“Hi,” they say dumbly.

She crooks one of the fingers currently inside herself, moans theatrically. Eyes on the Doctor, how they swallow, how their hands are twitching at their sides. Bless, they still don’t know what to do. Two thousand years and they’ve known how to initiate sexual contact for maybe ten. Given a generous estimate. She relents, slides off the piano, not bothering to rearrange her dress. Hands to the cell walls. “Have you just come to watch?”

“I - uh. No, I don’t think so.” They move to the cell lock mechanism, not meeting her eyes. “If I let you out, promise you won’t do anything to make me regret it?"

"Oh, my dear Doctor. You’ll have to be more specific than that.” She winks.

Ten seconds, give or take, for the Doctor to make up their mind and then bring the walls down. She steps out, and they’re not moving, just standing, watching - she steps out and pulls them tight to her. Arm around their lower back, hand in their mouth, so they can taste her. At least they’ve got enough sense to suck, lips chasing her fingers as she pulls them out with a wet pop.

She waits expectantly. They’re still standing there awkwardly. Right. This is going this way, then.

“Coat off, boots off, at least two of those shirts gone into the rubbish bin, follow me.” She crooks her fingers and turns away. To the bed, with a pitstop or two on the way. One thing this jail has is plenty of places to hide contraband. She can see them, out of the corner of her eye, hopping around on one foot trying to remember how to take shoes off like a normal person. And she can see them walking towards her.

“Sit down,” she says. She could exert a little extra influence here, make the proceedings a touch more streamlined, but it is nice, isn’t it, that the Doctor seems to genuinely want to follow her orders. It’s an occasional feature, in amongst their various regenerations; been centuries since she’s seen them this eager. She drops her armful of Fuck Things onto the foot of the bed.

They sit on the edge of the bed. Still, nervous and trembling and gagging for it, waiting for further instructions. She takes pity on them (and, oh, isn’t that still so delicious, being able to take pity on the Doctor), puts on a show: heels stepped out off, dress shucked off, hair unpinned and shook free. A slow, lazy slide of her hands over the severe curves of the corset before she unlaces it.

The way they’re staring at her, she doesn’t quite have a name for it. They touch her, here, for the first time in a very long while, just to ghost over the pink indentations the corset left behind. Calloused fingertips bumping along her skin, gently tracing her. And they let their hand drop, and they’re still again. Freeze-frame unmoving. Just - staring at her. Hungry, scared, the rough hints of all the memories of what the two of them had been burring up against the surface of their mind. They’ve always been loud, Theta Sigma. Never could keep their thoughts to themself.

All the fear and nostalgia and whatever marshaling around the central concept of an honestly almost awe-inspiring _thirst_ \- that want, that need. How they swallow, shift, how everything they are can’t help pressing against what this is. Thumb to bruise, thumb to clit. She could probably make them come right now just by smiling the right way. And while that would be fun, she takes opportunities as they arise.

She kisses them, hand on the back of their head. And neck, and shoulders: wiry muscles tensing under her fingertips, the flat of her palm. The thin cotton of their t-shirt a flimsy barrier. Skin shifting. She kisses the soft spot under their jaw, the bared throat - bared teeth, spit-slick red marks, the noises they’re making.

Hands on their shoulders and she’s pressing them down, the mattress squeaking. They go as easily as they ever have, as willingly. She pulls their shirt over their head. Hands on their chest, nails digging in. Tweaks a nipple, watches them squirm. Trousers off, flung into the void, exposing a pale but decently turned-out set of legs (every day is leg day when all you do is run away). And, Rassilon, are those Emoji boxers? Well. Needs must. She’s dealt with worse.

She settles down with her cunt hard against their thigh, trusting they can feel how wet she is. They twitch, gratifyingly, grabbing at the bare mattress. And the noises they’re making. Those small, choked, whining things.

So it’s going like this, then. She’d be lying if she said she was disappointed. She rummages through the pile of toys and comes up with a pair of cuffs. Their expression, she could probably coax an orgasm out of them through the implication alone. Leave the avant-garde abstract fucking for the possible second go, this time she’s getting her money’s worth. She pulls their hands over their head - they whine again, hips bucking, the first physical betrayal of what’s going on in their brain - clasps and locks the cuffs around their wrists, the chain looped around one of the rails in the headboard.

The Doctor tests the bind, pulling hard. Going all red-faced and squirmy, and those _noises_ again as they hit the limits of how far they can pull. Been a while since she’s gotten one like this. She is, suffice to say, something of a fan.

“D'you want me to hurt you?” she asks. She is, now, a polite and reasonable member of society.

“Sort of?” They tug against the restraints again, chain clanging against the metal bed frame.

“Like this?” She drags her nails down their chest, pressing in. Angry red lines blooming on their skin.

They twitch, legs kicking. “Yeah, uh, that’s okay, but not - oh.”

The foot-tap leg-jiggle reaches fever pitch as she reaches where they’d put all their eggs in one basket - gone native, of course, any decent Time Lord would secret their erogenous zones in various and surprising places, not this bundle of obvious nerves. She sighs, finds the rope buried beneath the dildos, pulls their legs apart and ties them spread-eagled to the bed. Tight enough to allow for only limited movement.

The Doctor strains, tugging full-body on the restraints. The way they’re staring at her. Fuck, she could make them come right now. Maybe this is where she makes them come. She sits down on their belly, relishing their quiet 'oof’ sound effect. Rocks her hips in search of friction, thumb on her clit. Other hand on their throat, which they like, oh they do enjoy that, and she enjoys that they enjoy that. The psychic spur, the arm reaching out and into them. And thrusting, hard. A rhythm, not four/four time, something offbeat - they’re falling apart beneath her, she’s riding them out. Breaking them down. The noises go from mewling whines to something approaching a raw, ragged shout; and the two of them are all tangled up, now; and when they come she comes and it reflects, it reflects, it _reflects_.

She catches her breath, like she hadn’t run out of it in the first place. She undoes the Doctor’s restraints. Finds her clothing, remembers where the baths are. The Doctor lies there limply, dare she imagine happily? Something happening there, anyway. She gathers her things and crooks her fingers, disappearing behind the door of the showers, the sauna; crooks her fingers and smiles and turns her back, trusting - or hoping - that they’ll follow.


End file.
